


Snap

by anoncock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gore, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Mantisfuck Consentworld, Pining, UST, implied major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoncock/pseuds/anoncock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Can I touch them?” he asks; they’re sitting in their chairs with the fire crackling between them.</p>
<p>“No,” John breathes, but he tongues at them anyway for Sherlock to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radialarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/gifts).



> anon: _"Where do we go from the dogfuck rapeworld with self-lubricating anuses, bizarre mutant penises and weird societal sex obsessions? WHERE?!?_
> 
> _I'm hoping for mantisfuck world, personally. Where the bottom is biologically compelled to devour the top during sex. So tops only get to mate once and have to make sure it's THE ONE."_
> 
> anon: _"If omegaverse is all about gender roles, then surely mantisfuck would be a metaphor for the purity ring movement. There's no casual sex in mantisfuck rapeworld."_
> 
> So basically, that happened, and then this happened, and if you're still confused, well. So am I.
> 
> Happy Marchmas, radialarch! :D <3

_Secondary teeth or pre-canids are the second set of  teeth formed in triphyodont mammals. In old world simians (including humans), there are thirty-two secondary teeth, consisting of six maxillary and six mandibular molars, four maxillary and four mandibular premolars, two maxillary and two mandibular canines, four maxillary and four mandibular incisors._

_-_

John’s seen scans of baby’s skulls, the secondaries hanging ghoulishly above blunt little milk teeth, the faint shadows of half-developed caniniforms above them.

_Love at first sight!_ the magazines say. _It’s pheromones_ , scientists proclaim, _a body preparing to mate_. 86% of the world’s population of women have tertiary caniniforms, and 17% of the men. Sometimes if he rubs at his own jaw he thinks he can feel the points of them, held stable by some quirk of biology.

Once, on the tube, a neatly dressed man in pinstripes had stepped on at Holborn and sat next to a pretty young woman. There had been no warning before her caniniforms erupted, before John was splattered to the knees in thick blood and shards of tooth, and next to her, the pinstriped man has gone wide-eyed and pale-faced in shock. John cradled her head, and watched as she smiled at him, her newly jagged teeth gleaming red.

-

In the lab, that first day, John feels the metallic taste of blood at the back of his throat.

-

“Your caniniforms descended,” says the man, says Sherlock. He looks like a giant, curious bird, and his fingers twitch as if to reach out, to touch John’s tender teeth. John tongues at the point of one, slowly, trying to get used to the shape of them in his mouth. In his new bedroom, his secondaries are wrapped in a bloody tissue on the cabinet.

“Yes,” he says.

“When you met me this morning,” Sherlock adds. His eyes are wide, and he steps closer, then rocks back.

“Yes,” says John, “but it doesn’t--we aren’t, we _can’t_ , not that I--”

“You’d eat me,” Sherlock agrees. He still looks fascinated.

“Don’t--don’t just _say_ that,” John snaps. “I’m not going to eat you.” His salivary glands ache dully.

“Indeed. It’s just pheromones, or so they say.”

“Exactly,” says John, pleased, lisping through the new gaps in his teeth. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

-

Except.

Except it does.

John is half in love with Sherlock by the end of that first day, and within the month he’s in so deep he can’t see which way the surface is, never mind how to reach it. He should have left the lab as soon as iron had flooded his mouth. He should have left and never looked back.

He had been curious, though, to know who it was for him.

-

He begins to slip.

It’s incremental, until it’s not, little touches on Sherlock’s knee, on his shoulder, skin-to-cloth contact that satisfies John in some deep way he hadn’t even been aware of needing. It’s like sating an addiction in tiny doses, until he finds himself in the hallway of 221b, breathless with laughter and adrenaline and so close to Sherlock that he can _smell_ him, and they’re both breathing hard, edging closer, Sherlock’s warm breath cutting over the planes of his mouth.

John licks his lips, nicks his tongue on the sharp edge of a tooth and is suddenly wrenching himself back in shock. Sherlock pants shakily beside him.

“What if it wasn’t me,” he murmurs, hoarse.

John lets his head fall back against the wall. “It was you,” he says. His body throbs with want.

-

And the air in the flat is charged, as if all the dust motes floating there have become electrified, positive and negative ions making his skin crackle whenever Sherlock is in the room, and it’s far, far too late for him to move out. Every time they get close he feels the magnetic draw of Sherlock’s touch, and the hardest thing is that Sherlock clearly feels it too. He isn’t nearly as afraid as John is.

“I could tie you up,” he says one morning, blinking as John’s mug clatters to the floor, leaving a pool of tea spreading on the linoleum. “I’m very good with knots.” He leans close. John shudders. “You wouldn’t escape.”

“No,” John says, as the words crawl over his skin.

-

“Can I touch them?” he asks; they’re sitting in their chairs with the fire crackling between them.

“No,” John breathes, but he tongues at them anyway for Sherlock to see.

-

Sherlock starts to touch him. A hand on his nape, shoulder or knee pressed against him. The touches happen over days, weeks, and yet he feels them all building up incrementally into _something_ he won’t be able to stop.

Warm hand, big on his shoulder, his mouth watering, cock twitching softly in his pants. He’s splayed out on the sofa, Sherlock crawling over him.

“Sherlock,” he hisses. “Please.” And he’s not sure what he’s pleading for. Anything but this. Sherlock leans closer, they’re almost touching, John is about to tremble out of his own skin and he can hear the soft, excited hitching of Sherlock’s breath.

“I can’t hurt you,” he whispers desperately. “Sherlock--”

And Sherlock is shoving himself back with a half-groan, leaving John dizzy and confused, his head a haze of hot panic.

“I want to-,” Sherlock grits out. “Stay there, and--” he swallows, long fingers flexing at the fabric.

John snaps his teeth, points clacking, then covers his mouth in shock. “Jesus!”

Sherlock _leans_ into him, as if he’s being pulled, then manages to scramble backwards off the sofa until he’s up against the wall and they’re both panting loudly in the quiet of the room.

-

“John,” says Sherlock, over a strained breakfast. “Let me. You have to let me.”

John watches the minute tremors of his fork against the plate, imagines his arms stretched high above his head as Sherlock crawls all over him. He swallows dryly, shifts his toe where it’s resting against the point of Sherlock’s shoe and feels the touch in his belly, the points of his nipples. His teeth ache, a sweet hurt, and he presses at the back of them with his tongue.

“Dangerous.”

“Yes,” says Sherlock, eyes gleaming.

“Do it with zip ties.”

“ _Yes._ ”

-

John’s never felt so exposed. His hands are tied together and fastened to the headboard, his ankles splayed and cuffed. Sherlock is naked. God, Sherlock is naked in front of him and John wants to _touch_ ; he strains briefly, squirms against the small amount of give in the ties until his mouth starts to water and he falls limp on the blankets.

Sherlock is spreading his legs, warm hands crawling up John’s thighs, up over his hips and his ribs, proprietary. He lowers his weight down until they’re pressed together, bleeding warmth into each other, and each one of Sherlock’s shivering panted breaths puffs against John’s neck. His cock is silky smooth and slip-bumping up under John’s thigh, the wet head dabbing soft-hot touches under his balls, and John is saying something, is saying “ah, ah,” because there’s no way he’s going to be able to stay quiet. The sounds are crawling out of his mouth, and his lips are too slack to stop them.

He has to be closer to Sherlock, and Sherlock seems to sense it too because after a few minutes of squirming together, of Sherlock pressing him down down into the mattress with increasingly frantic thrusts, John has hardly any breath left in his lungs and he needs _more_.

“Need to,” he manages, before Sherlock’s biting mouth is dragging along his jaw and pressing against his, all teeth and tongue and no finesse at all.

“Yes,” Sherlock says between sucking, desperate kisses, “yes, yeah, we need, I want--” and he’s pressing John’s legs apart but also spreading his, and John wants to _climb inside him_. Wants to fuck him, and be fucked, wants his fingers inside Sherlock and Sherlock in his mouth, Sherlock inside him, and god, god, wants to eat him alive.

Something blooms inside him, suddenly. A sort of calm certainty, and he’s pushing Sherlock a little bit backwards with one knee. Sherlock, his pretty mouth swollen pink, eyes glassy and dark; a wild thing, caught.

“Take the ties off,” says John. The calm feeling inside of him clenches sweetly, and he opens his mouth to let Sherlock see, to let him really see.

Sherlock gasps softly, but more than that, John can see the way his cock jerks against his belly, the thread of precome spilling down and glinting in the low light, and the high, hectic flush on his face

“Take them off,” he says again, and then Sherlock is pushing one salty finger into John’s mouth, soft flesh tearing on the jagged edges of John’s teeth. “I want to fuck you,” John says, iron on his tongue, “and then--” Sherlock shudders, “I want to tear your throat open, and eat you.”

They kiss, bloody and slippery. “Say yes,” John says, wet, into Sherlock’s mouth. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” Sherlock sobs. He’s coming on John’s stomach, all over him, curling in on himself as if he’s been kicked in the gut and John can feel that the zip ties are pulling his wrists ragged but he has to get closer.

There are scissors on the bedside table for afterwards. Sherlock hangs over him briefly, panting, and then sits up, tilts himself sideways and picks them up with his long, lovely fingers.

He snips the ties.

Snip.

Snap.


End file.
